


Trust and Thaumaturgy

by Inkblot9



Series: Witchy Pines [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anxiety, Comfort, Compromise, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Growth, M/M, Magic, Reconciliation, Sleep, Sleepy Cuddles, Trust, Understanding, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 11:26:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12231882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkblot9/pseuds/Inkblot9
Summary: In which Stanford's magical interest and fulfillment therein continues to conflict with his reemerging romance with Fiddleford, a man still superstitious and anxious of the unknown.





	Trust and Thaumaturgy

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have any excuse for this other than I love witch-Ford and sappy cuddly old men.

When Stanford first spoke of his new focus of study, he received something of a mixed reaction. Excitement and intrigue were definitely present, but his loved ones showed him a fair share of bewilderment, concern, and even mockery as well.

He found he couldn’t blame them for any of it. Anyone would think that he would be yearning for safe normality at this point in his life. But he couldn’t shake his fascination with—and attachment to—all things wonderfully weird.

On some level, magic had always been a part of Ford’s life. From the fantastic adventure novels he pored over as a child, to the defensive spells he carried with him in the darker parts of the Gravity Falls woods, or even the spectacular wonders he and his brother had encountered on the _Stan o’ War II_ , he had been seeing it everywhere for a very long time.

Now, all he wanted was to understand the mysterious and powerful forces that surrounded him—to connect with them, to become a part of those invisible cycles and chains. He knew it well that everyone he loved had had confusing or shocking or simply _unpleasant_ experiences with the unknown. With that in mind, he was hoping to forge his own brand of magic to protect and create, rather than to cause harm or destruction.

Soon enough, his family began to understand his reasoning and accept—even embrace!—his newfound passion. Their support lifted his spirits and made him even more motivated to learn all he could. He grew confidence in his skills and his purpose. He felt a thrill and fulfillment he never would have expected when he felt he could accurately call himself a _witch_.

It took Fiddleford—with whom Ford had recently reestablished a romantic connection—the longest to adjust to this shift in Ford’s habits. That, too, was understandable; he had always been a superstitious, anxious man, hard-set in the tangible and wary of what might lay beyond. To hear that his long-term partner was intending to place heavy faith and importance in casting spells and channeling mysterious powers must have been somewhat unnerving.

After all, the last time he had seen Ford decide to follow a strange and paranormal path seemingly out of the blue, it hadn’t ended well for either of them. Ford assured him repeatedly that his practice had nothing to do with any sort of evil force, nor was he planning on summoning any angry spirits or chaos demons to invade their well-deserved peace. He knew better than that now.

Fiddleford seemed to accept his word, but still, Ford recognized an air of apprehension about him. So he kept discussion of the topic to a minimum and his studies silent and solitary.

One night some months later, Ford was just sliding into bed when he heard Fiddleford mumbling frustratedly from the other side. The mattress was shaking slightly with the restless bounce of his knee.

It was unusual for Fiddleford to still be wide awake by the time Ford completed his nighttime meditation. Concerned, Ford inquired if he was feeling all right. Fiddleford sighed before turning to face him, looking at him tiredly through his striking blue eyes that Ford could make out even without the aid of the light or his glasses.

“‘M plumb tuckered out,” Fiddleford grumbled at last. “Haven’t been sleepin’ too well for a while now. There’s always somethin’ nasty-like squeezin’ its way into the ol’ noodle.” He tapped the side of his head for emphasis.

“I know forgetting isn’t the answer,” he added after a moment, as if he had anticipated what Ford was thinking. “Really, I do. But I still want t’ relax now and again, y’know? I don’t…I don’t need to forget, but…but can’t I just get somma this junk outta my head for half a darn minute? I’m not askin’ for much. Just a wee bitta reprieve so I can get some godforsaken shuteye!”

Ford moved a hand from his side to rest on Fiddleford’s cheek, feeling the fine white hairs of his beard between his fingers. “Hey,” he murmured, almost without thinking, “I…I may have happened upon a spell recently that might be of help to you. N-not that we have to go that route, of course,” he added hastily once his mind reminded him that his partner wasn’t exactly accustomed to the idea of his use of practical magic.

But to his surprise, Fiddleford began to nod. “Sure,” he said with a shrug. “Worth a shot, ain’t it? At this point, I’d try most anything…”

Quickly Ford attempted to recompose himself. He rose into a cross-legged seated position, then requested that Fiddleford sit up as well. He heard him mutter something along the lines of “how in hell am I s’posed to getta sleep if I’m sittin’ up like a startled hare”, but nonetheless he complied.

Ford staggered himself down the length of the bed until he was facing Fiddleford’s back. He plucked his glasses from the nightstand and readjusted them on his face as he did so; he wanted all his senses about him for this.

“Do you trust me?” he asked carefully. He had his hands held out in front of him, ready to work, but he dared not begin until he knew Fiddleford felt safe and comfortable.

“Yes, darlin’,” came Fiddleford’s reply, as smooth, sweet, and sincere as raw wild honey. Ford’s heart swelled at the affirmation, and so he was ready to perform his magic…or, almost.

He was realizing that while he had learned to enchant inanimate objects, and he had practiced any number of solitary rituals, this was the first time that he, as a witch, would be casting a spell on another person directly. He tensed at the thought, but he brought himself back to calm with a deep breath and the fact that Fiddleford loved and trusted him.

 _If he believes that I can do this right, then surely I will succeed,_ Ford thought. _What right do I have to doubt him?_

So at last, he began. He placed his hands on Fiddleford’s thin shoulders and slowly rolled his fingertips across his skin. In a deliberate, rhythmic pattern, he worked his hands downward to massage Fiddleford’s back, all the while reciting an incantation he had memorized a week or two prior. His voice dropped to a low, soothing murmur, as his hands glowed with the sparking golden aura that had developed alongside his personal magic energy.

Before long, Fiddleford was visibly relaxing. His muscles were growing limp and his anxious heart rate had slowed. So Ford continued, guiding Fiddleford deeper until they were both lying flat again.

Now completely still, Fiddleford gazed at his partner lovingly from behind his drooping eyelids. Ford smiled back, then waved his hand in a swift, circular motion to seal the spell.

All at once, Fiddleford’s eyes fell shut. A deep, peaceful exhale, followed by a nasally snore, indicated that he had indeed sunk into slumber. Ford felt a dash of pride ignite within him: he had done it! 

According to one of the old grimoires Ford had collected, this spell induced in its subject a healing, restorative sleep, combating insomnia, fatigue, and nightmares. Now his beloved would rest for as long as he needed, undisturbed by any sort of interruptions or mental unpleasantness.

“Good night, my dear,” Ford hummed, as the last hint of shining gold faded from his fingertips. He slipped off his glasses again and settled down beside him for some rest of his own.

When they met for breakfast the next morning, Fiddleford’s eyes were bright, brimming with eager life. He enthusiastically informed Ford that his magical solution had worked wonderfully, that he had given him the best sleep he could remember.

He handed off a mug of coffee to his partner, then stood up on tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek. When his lips brushed past Ford’s ear, he whispered, “Superstitions be damned. In a bedeviled place like this, I reckon we’re awful lucky to have ourselves a good witch.”


End file.
